The Language of Touch
by BookishPower
Summary: Far over words, Hermione trusts the language of touch to understand the people around her. Dramione, one-shot.


Hermione always believed that one could tell a lot about the way a parent and child interacted by the way they touched. She saw it in herself at an early age, desperate hugs given to her parents before she wrenched herself free and onto the Hogwarts Express. She felt it in the strength of her mother's embrace, unwilling to let her go, her father's hand on her hair, catching slightly on her collar as if he wanted to hold her back but would not.

Never for an instant did Hermione doubt her parents' feelings about her.

When she got to know the Weasley family, she watched them all interact like planets orbiting two suns. The distant ones, Charlie and Bill, often traveled far, only to swerve and hurtle right back towards the family on a near collision-course, welcomed back with open arms. The rest of the Weasleys (with the exception of Percy) treated their parents in much the same way. Arthur Weasley did not hug his children as much as his wife, but at the breakfast table, Hermione saw his hand touch Ron's head in an affectionate gesture, saw him tap George proudly on the back. For this restraint he got a bit more respect than Molly, whose frequent hugs and kisses were pushed aside – and yet cherished all the same.

Harry's parents had long ago passed on, but their echoes could be seen in the way he held his own children. Instead of hugging his children, he seemed to scoop them up, holding them tightly to him, arms spread wide across their back to prevent them from harm. Ginny had worried about him in this respect, afraid that he would fear letting them go when the time came. But no, Harry sent his children to Hogwarts with a smile on his face, standing and watching until the train could no longer be seen. His face would fall after that, only to be buoyed up by the touch of Albus or Lily's hand on his, by Ginny's hand on his back.

There was one parent-child interaction, though, that confused Hermione. As rarely as she saw them at that point in her life, Hermione remembered Lucius Malfoy calling Draco over to peer at herself and the others captured and taken to the manor. Lucius put his hand on Draco's shoulder, a light enough touch, though Hermione could see that it was less of an encouragement and more of a command. Draco certainly reacted as if it were a condemnation, looking over his shoulder at his father and down at that commanding hand, as if contemplating how he could get away. She knew that Lucius loved Draco – but not until that moment had she seen the mountain of expectations that went with that love.

It was a gesture that worried Hermione throughout her pregnancy. Draco was certainly not his father – otherwise, he would never have chosen a life with her. While a bit restrained with her in public, in private, Draco was otherwise…very physically expressive. She came to relish the sound of the door closing, for it was swiftly followed by Draco's fervent kisses and twining arms. Privacy seemed to unlock the wizard who lay beside her, their legs tangled and his nose nudging through her hair, who sat beside her, an arm thrown across her shoulders and a pair of tickling lips at her ear, who welcomed her own arm curling around his waist, her fingers lacing in his.

Draco's reactions seemed to intensify when she announced their pregnancy, showing an intense appreciation of her new curves, rubbing her back in the mornings after sickness had her doubled over. He was adorably affectionate with her swelling middle when the time came, reaching out to feel their son's fluttering kicks, trying to get as close to him as possible. But what would happen when he was born? What would happen when Scorpius could touch back – would Draco revert to his father's ways?

As it turned out, Hermione didn't have to worry.

Now, when she jogs up the stairs to their bedroom, opening the door, she can see all the evidence of Draco's fatherly affection that she ever needs.

Atop the coverlet (with his shoes still on!), Draco lies on his back, softly snoring. Sprawled atop his chest, also asleep, two-year-old Scorpius clings to his father's collar with one hand while drooling wetly on his expensive shirt. One of Draco's hands is splayed across Scorpius's back, holding him securely in place (though there's nowhere for Scorpius to roll but onto the bed). The other hand limply holds a copy of _Beedle the Bard's Tales_ , Draco's thumb wedged in the pages where he must have been reading.

Absolute trust. Unconditional affection. How could she have ever doubted?

Hermione smiles to herself and climbs up next to them, snuggling in. Draco awakes at the feel of the mattress dipping, and blinks sleepily at his wife, a bit confused after falling asleep in the middle of the day. He cottons on to her movements quickly enough, maneuvering Scorpius so that the boy is cuddled between his embracing parents, his nap unbroken.

Hermione trusts the language of touch more than any other, and uses it now, stroking the hair from her husband's eyes, letting a finger slide down the sharp line of his nose lightly. She never wants him to feel that love is a burden – instead, a banner, to be held aloft and displayed.


End file.
